


i love the rose both red and white

by thisbluespirit



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Shadow of the Tower
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Background Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, The Wars of the Roses, Trust Issues, Yuletide Treat, unfortunate people get sacrificed/locked in the Tower in each AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: I love the rose both red and white, Is that your pure, perfect appetite?Five other ways it might have gone for Elizabeth of York and Henry Tudor.





	i love the rose both red and white

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllegoriesInMediasRes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/gifts).



> With thanks to Persiflage for the beta!

**1\. this garden to rule**

England has a queen now. King Edward left behind him only a line of girls, the boys succumbing to childhood ailments, as boys so often do. The people love her; that is how she dares to rule, but it will not be enough forever. How can a woman rule even a country at peace, let alone one that has been torn apart for so many years? Since a woman must be subject to her husband, the queen’s marriage will bring the country under another’s rule. Many would be that man; others think it safer to remove the queen.

Elizabeth has spent these months since her coronation considering her choices. She has never been asked to choose before. She could have a foreign prince, and secure important treaties and alliances, but the country will not welcome a foreign prince. Or she may marry a lord of her court and have all the others burn with resentment and envy. Either way, there will be discontent, and perhaps rebellion.

She has seen the wheel of fortune turn, seen her father once lose the throne, but as a princess, she had no enemies of her own. As queen, she finds her enemies are everywhere: her court is full of wolves. Her cousin of Lincoln would marry her; her Uncle suggests she be betrothed to his infant son, and every member of the council would put forward themselves, or a son, or brother. She finds it harder and harder to trust any of them.

There is one other possibility, one Elizabeth, her mother, and Lady Margaret Beaufort have raised. It will no doubt be little better, but Elizabeth is beginning to think it might answer. So, she walks with Lady Margaret in the garden at Sheen, and tells her it is time for her son to return home, and Lady Margaret knows what she means. 

Whether or not this Yorkist queen will marry the last Lancastrian and bind up the country’s wounds, that Elizabeth will decide when she sees him. If not, she can always keep him in the Tower. He will be less trouble there.

 

It takes time for letters to be exchanged and terms of his return and restoration to be agreed, and there are several more delays before Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, comes home, after half his life away in Brittany. Elizabeth has not breathed a word of marriage in her communications – she knows that Lady Margaret will have made that clear by her more trusted messengers.

When she summons the Earl of Richmond after his arrival, word comes back that he is ill; a rather dispiriting start. Elizabeth charges her people to bring him to her as soon as he is able, and laughs over it in private with her sister Cecily.

“Perhaps he _is_ a milksop,” says Elizabeth, arm in arm with Cecily. So some have said of him. “To think Lady Margaret once told me he was a mystery!”

“A mystery?”

Elizabeth smiles. “There’s nothing secret about the Plantagenets, so Lady Margaret says. We know what we want and how to get it. But the Tudors – there is always something in their hearts which is a mystery to themselves and to everyone else.”

 

When they bring Henry to her, Elizabeth watches him approach the throne with interest. He is thin, yes; perhaps pale from whatever ailment troubled him on his arrival, but not a milksop. He is taller than she had imagined, and she has the breathless feeling of having run into an unexpected wall.

She dismisses all but her most trusted attendants, though the guard remains outside the door, and surveys her captive, as he kneels before the Queen.

Elizabeth lifts her chin and extends a royal hand. “We trust you are fully recovered, my lord.”

Henry bends over the proffered hand, and then looks up. “I am, your grace.” He says nothing more, waiting for her to speak first, but he is observing her closely, his gaze sharp.

“You are aware of the –” she hesitates delicately, while gesturing for him to rise, and glad of the extra height of the dais on which her throne is placed –“other matter between us? Your mother will have told you.”

Henry waits again, grey eyes now blank, opaque. “Other matter, your grace?”

“Your mother has told you I intend to end the divisions between York and Lancaster,” she says, having to stifle annoyance at him for being so difficult. 

When he still doesn’t say anything, she thinks that a wall was more apt than she had realised, and rises, stretching out her hand to him again. “Walk with me, my lord.” She turns to him as they make their way across the hall, and she says, “You and I are to marry, my lord, if you will. That is why I allowed your return.”

“Your grace does me much honour,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Too great an honour, I fear. I will serve you faithfully as your subject, but not as your husband. It seems too precarious a position to me.”

He _refuses_. Elizabeth is hard pressed not to forget her regal dignity and swing round and stare at him. 

“Do not tell me that your council approves,” he adds. “There might be rebellion. Every time you were brought to bed of a child the kingdom would be in fear. I – We should never be secure. I would need at least more time to consider.”

After that, Elizabeth sends him back to the Tower. That ought to be secure enough for anyone, she thinks and wonders if she should charge the common people a shilling a piece to view him on holidays, as a great curiosity – the only eligible noble in her kingdom who does _not_ wish to marry the Queen.

She should turn to one of her many other options, then, but she has made promises to Lady Margaret – and perhaps, after all, Lady Margaret was right. Elizabeth _is_ a Plantagenet and now she has set her mind on Henry, she won’t give up easily. 

 

A few days later, Elizabeth visits Henry in his apartments in the Tower, accompanied by two of her ladies. In theory, he is not a prisoner now, not since he has been pardoned; he is merely lodged here, but the difference is highly theoretical, as Elizabeth has not given him permission to leave – for his own safety, and hers.

She sweeps in through the door, drawing herself up, queenly in sable and fine pine-patterned cloth edged with silver thread. “Have you reconsidered my proposition or do you remain stubborn?” she demands, before registering that the man standing in front of her is not Henry, but an older, wirier and worn figure. It must be his uncle, Jasper Tudor, who returned with him.

“Your grace,” Jasper says, bowing in greeting, but there’s a carelessness to his movements, as if he ceased to worry too much about formalities a long time ago. He has been lord and outlaw, exile and captive. He grins. “If you mean Harry, I daresay he’s unlikely to cease being stubborn at his age, but as to the other, he’s come to his senses, you need not fear.”

She laughs. “We are glad to hear it.”

“You are, your grace?” says another voice, as Henry emerges from the doorway to the inner chamber, young and upright in contrast to Jasper. “I am surprised.”

Elizabeth raises her chin. “Do not take it as a compliment, my lord of Richmond.”

“I was ungracious at our last meeting,” Henry says, and bends over her outstretched hand. “I had believed till that moment that my mother had deceived herself and the offer must be a trick.”

Elizabeth let herself relax, looking from one to the other. “And yet you came anyway?”

He bows his head, silent again, allowing her to reach her own conclusions.

“Well, you should know your mother better,” she says, deciding not to press him on the matter, though she begins to understand that he has also had few choices he was permitted to make, either. “And I am not my father. So, now what do you say to my offer – shall we make a treaty between us?”

He smiles. “Your grace does me much honour,” he says again, and makes her laugh. “I had come to believe my life should either be painful and short, or stretch out overlong, forever a prisoner. Now it seems it shall at least be worth something, whatever the outcome.”

“You are still not very flattering, my lord.”

 

Elizabeth daren’t release Henry from the Tower yet. Among certain circles at court he is the most unpopular man in the country, and she must wait for a formal betrothal before she makes any other moves regarding him. The match pleases the people, however, and so her council praise her for her wisdom, even if many of them do so through gritted teeth, and others rail at her in private.

What she does next is invite him to go hunting with her at Sheen. She must know him better. She needs an ally, not merely a husband under duress, or a schemer who will betray her at the first opportunity.

So, when they ride out, Elizabeth well-wrapped in crimson velvet and ermine, she leads him away from the rest of the party, their pace slowing. Their servants are behind them at a discreet distance, and no one may overhear their conversation here.

“My lord,” she says, “you said to me at first that you thought I offered you a precarious position. It may be, I fear, but know that you will never be in greater danger than I. I trust that, if we may work together well, we can succeed at ruling this kingdom – and prove all the nay-sayers wrong.”

Henry watches her again, and then nods, even as he must calm his more restless mount. “Yes. I should not have said those things, your grace.”

“Were they not true?”

He gives a slight, sideways smile. “Perhaps. But I spoke out of fear. I shall do better from now on, and trust you will forgive me.”

“I _may_ ,” says Elizabeth, but she smiles, and they hold each other’s gaze; a silent understanding between them, only broken when his mount grows restless and he turns his head to steady the steed.

He gazes into the distance. “I believe we have lost the others.”

“It does not matter,” says Elizabeth. “There will be other times for such amusements. Let us return. We have, I think, much to discuss.”

He nods, and they race each other back to the palace, the wind stealing her breath as they ride, attendants close behind. 

Elizabeth is not disappointed to leave the hunt this once. She has her quarry successfully run to ground in any case, and is well pleased with herself. When they reach the courtyard, and her servants run to help her out of the saddle, she waves them aside, gesturing instead to Henry, who helps her down, his gloved hands around her waist for a moment, eyes solemn and dark with intent, and then she is standing on gravel outside the great door, looking up at him.

“Is it not strange?” she says, her heart still running fast from the ride, and laughs until he does, too. “You and I.”

He takes her hands, and shakes his head at her. “Indeed. A great marvel, no less.”

She lets him lead her in, laughing again. “So it is,” she says, and finally dares to hope for the best.

***

**2\. meadowsweet**

Elizabeth survives the childbed fever that February in 1503, much weakened at first, and sorrowed from the further loss of her infant daughter, but she _is_ alive, and for that she gives thanks as soon as she is able, as does her husband, and all his court.

Time passes, and time passes, and Henry does as he wills, as ever, but the Queen has her own influence, especially when it comes to those who might be said to be under her care.

“We cannot have the Princess Catherine in want,” she says, when Henry joins her in her chambers, escaping the wearying round of Council, and accounts that he can no longer so sharply oversee. 

“Cannot, madam?” 

She turns towards him, taking his hands. “I promised their Spanish majesties I should be as a mother to her, and you a father. I gave my word, your grace. I would not fail in that.”

He angles himself away from her and will not quite meet her gaze; his fingers tightening on the edges of his velvet robe. Elizabeth knows him well by now: what the King is persuaded he must do does not sit well with the man, but the King cannot be wrong. 

“I may see her, your grace,” she says, giving him a softening smile. “You would not deny me that, and of course, from time to time, I may have gifts for her, poor child.”

He laughs then, and squeezes her hand in return; she’s given him the loophole he needs. “Yes, yes, and I daresay you should not regard it even if I did. I know you and your charity, madam. Very well, I would not deny you that.” He pauses, bending his head in closer, his tone softer. “I would deny you very little, Bess. Nothing, if my wishes were all that counted.”

“I have what I need,” she says, and it’s no lie, although this future is far from any she once imagined, and it would not be true to say she has no regrets. She puts her hand to his arm. “And your grace is well?” He is in pain too often these days, reminding her of his frailty, which is not a thing she cares to contemplate. She would not lose him, either.

He pats her hand, and moves away to look out of the window, over into the garden she has planned and planted for their comfort and pleasure, pale, wintry sunlight playing on his face. “Only weary, that is all.” He glances back at her, before pulling her in closer. “What think you, Bess?” he murmurs in her ear. “ _Should_ Catherine have Harry also?”

The sun slips behind a cloud, as Elizabeth frowns over the shadows of doubt in him, beginning to understand his fears.

“It must be certain,” he says, as if to himself rather than to her. 

“If we still wish for the alliance for Spain,” she says of the match they had both worked so hard for, “then he must, mustn’t he?”

“In time, yes. In time.” He winces, maybe in pain, or fear, or as somebody walks over his grave.

Elizabeth smoothes down his sleeves. “You must take better care of yourself. Your grace works too hard.”

The laughter is alight in his eyes when he looks at her, the moment of darkness gone again. “Ah, Bess,” he says. “Now you begin to sound like my mother!”

***

**3\. in a glorious garden green**

The weather is kind to the Lancastrians after all in the spring of 1471, and Elizabeth’s fate is sealed. King Henry (sixth of that name) is safely returned to his throne and those closest to Elizabeth are dead or exiled – and chiefly, they are dead. Her mother is recovering from the birth of an ill-timed son who, it seems likely will not live, and now Elizabeth, Mary and Cecily are to be brought before the King and Queen.

Being taken away from their mother now is too much and even Elizabeth, taught her duty from birth, is close to tears, and if she weeps, then all three will; tearful young daughters of York.

“Courage, my lady,” says Lady Margaret Beaufort, who takes her in. She at least is familiar. She does not try to comfort the child with soft words or caresses, but keeps close by and says, under her breath, low enough for Elizabeth to hear, but not so loud as to attract anyone else’s attention, “You must be brave for your sisters.”

Elizabeth stares hard ahead, and keeps her pride.

“You will see your mother again,” Lady Margaret adds, “that I promise, though it may take a little time. You have my word, my dear.”

It helps.

 

Courage will only go so far, even for a princess, and let to wander in the enclosed garden, she flees, scattering petals as she goes, in search of the impossible – somewhere to weep in private. She has lost her parents, her nurse, and almost all the familiar ladies of the house have been replaced, and soon, she gathers, she and Mary will be sent away. The Queen frightens her; she stares as if she hates her, and Elizabeth cannot imagine she will choose to send her anywhere good.

She finds an empty chamber and hides in the window, among curtains and cushions and cries until she has no tears left, only dry, hiccoughing sobs, and drops, exhausted, into an uneasy doze, till something wakes her and she lifts her head, startled and confused.

“Lady Elizabeth,” says someone who is not any of the household ladies, a boy still, but only just, and tall enough that she might have otherwise thought him quite grown already. “You have caused quite a stir in the household. Though how you escaped them all, when you left a trail behind you, I do not know.” He holds out a handful of crushed petals, and smiles, before brushing them away. When Elizabeth doesn’t respond, he says, more seriously, “I have sent someone to tell my mother, but if you permit me, I will take you to her.”

She has seen him before; he is Lady Margaret Beaufort’s son, and so she nods, for at least Lady Margaret is better than the others. She draws herself up, and holds her arms out to be carried with the air of one used to having everything done for her.

“I heard,” says Henry, sitting beside her instead, “that my Lord Oxford is to have care of you. You should not be afraid. I think he is a _good_ man, and he will not treat you unkindly.”

She is too exhausted to care, and only shakes her head, holding out her arms again, cross that he isn’t doing what she wants.

Henry picks her up with an effort – she is well grown for her age, and he, though tall, is thin. He is all bones under her beneath the solidity of the fabric of their clothes. “I am sorry. My mother will always speak for you – you may trust her for that.”

“Why can I not stay with Lady Margaret?” she says, into his shoulder, tightening her hold on his neck, causing him to shift her weight against him.

“Easy, my lady – I would prefer you not strangle me,” he says, with a grin. Then he sobers again; he sighs under her. “She cannot. My stepfather is dead, so she is grieving, and has many matters to attend to. But she will always remember you. And I am sorry – I know how it feels.”

“You don’t.” She wriggles into a better position again. “You can’t.”

“Perhaps. But I was sent away when I was younger than you,” he says. “Last time, when _your_ father won. Still, though I was a prisoner, I was treated kindly by Sir William and his family. Indeed, it was on that matter I came to speak to my mother, for Lady Herbert and Will and Maud and the younger ones are now in distress, and she will help them, I am sure.”

Elizabeth is hardly listening, half-asleep again on his shoulder as they begin down the passage way, only for her to be lifted away by one of the Queen’s ladies, professing shock at my lord of Richmond attending to a child, even as Lady Margaret comes bearing down on them.

“Henry,” she says. “You found her. I knew she could not have gone far. My lady,” she adds, turning to Elizabeth, “it is not _safe_ for you to be wandering alone, even within these walls. Now, no more of these tears, for I have good news: Cecily is returned to your mother, and in the meantime, my lord of Oxford will have care of you, and I am sure he and his lady will look after you well.”

 

Lord Oxford and his wife are indeed kind, and Elizabeth grows fond of them both over the years, but Henry proves right; it isn’t easy. Oxford may be willing to show generosity to his enemies, especially to an unfortunate pair of girl-children, but the rest of the household is full of resentment and hate. Elizabeth senses it, even at first, when she is so young, and much of it is unspoken. My lord’s older brother and father had been executed by King Edward, and the household does not easily forgive. She waits on the Dowager Countess at times and she always says, not unkindly, but loudly, how strange it is to have Elizabeth and Mary here, and seems to study them for some unseen thing that she never quite finds. (Does she look for the marks that say this is the daughter of the man who killed her husband and son?)

Castle Hedington, in the flat eastern country, is a looming fortress enough to quell anyone’s spirit, even with a bustling household within. The de Veres are one of the oldest noble families in England – their furniture is ancient and worn, and Elizabeth, even more alone after her sister Mary’s death, wanders about in this place, like a ghost, forgotten amongst the relics of bygone ages.

The House of York is a soon-forgotten dream, only a few bloody and turbulent years that disrupted the rule of King Henry before his son Edward inherited from him. Elizabeth has letters from her mother and Cecily, and sees them on rare occasions, for Margaret Beaufort keeps her word. Elizabeth is sure if it were not for the Dowager Queen, she would be at court, attending the new Queen, but Hedington isn’t the only place where old hatreds do not die.

They must plan to marry her to someone, but she hears little gossip, and Oxford is ever-discreet. Sometimes she hopes she will be sent abroad, even though she would miss her mother and sister sorely. But she thinks it would be easier if she were sent away to another land where she might still be seen as a king’s daughter – the true king’s daughter.

That is not what happens, however. She is summoned to see Lord Oxford, arrived from London and in high spirits, asking for her.

“I have news for you, Bess,” he says, taking her hands. “It has been talked of for some time, but never settled till now – you are to go to court and, all being well, are to marry the Earl of Richmond.” 

Lady Margaret Beaufort’s son. Elizabeth does not know how to respond. She would have supposed him wed long ago. And it is an insult of sorts – Henry does well for himself these days, busy on the King’s business and high in his counsel, but his parentage is odd, and whatever else Elizabeth may be, she is of royal descent. 

Henry comes to see her before the arrangements are complete, walking out with her in the garden in the Tower. He brings her a volume of poetry and when he first looks at her, she’s certain she sees a flash of admiration in his eyes. He’s not handsome, but he he’s not unattractive – he’s tall, with a contained energy about him, and a smile that lights his thin face. She feels something, too, when he kisses her hand to seal their bargain, and she finds herself more curious than displeased at the match. 

“We shall do well together, I trust,” he says, and clasps her hands tightly on the last time he comes before the wedding. His grey-blue gaze is intent.

Elizabeth nods, lowering her eyes, uncertain of any correct response, and unsteady. She’s still unsure, still nervous, but now also feverish with anticipation. It’s exhilarating but confusing. It’s easy to believe and hope, after all, and she’s even more pleased when he sends her cloth for a gown as a wedding gift. He is thoughtful, she tells herself. He _is_ kind. She doesn’t even mind the prospect of travelling so far north with him, to his lands there.

They’re married at Westminster, with feasting at Baynard’s Castle, the fortress by the Thames where her father was crowned; a place that should be painfully familiar, but it is too long ago. Elizabeth barely thinks of it, dizzied by the celebrations, at being the centre of attention for the first time in many years, by the feasting, the spiced wine and the music. It’s strange, what follows, but easier and far pleasanter than she feared.

But she wakes in the morning to find Henry there, sitting on the edge of the bed, one of the drapes pulled back. He is already dressed, and he presses a thick robe round her shoulders, apologising for waking her. 

“The King has need of me,” he tells her, kissing her hand, before she can pull it away in irrational indignation (of course he must go if the king demands it). “But the arrangements remain for your journey to Richmond, and I will join you there soon.”

Of course, it is only a contract, a negotiation, this marriage. Was it as tiresome to think how to find a gift to please her, or to caress her, as it was to persuade the King to agree and then to give her lands for her dowry? Henry, it seems, studied her with his customary efficiency, learned his subject well, and now puts it to use against her. 

“In the meanwhile,” he says, showing again that he has her measure, “the gardens are in much need of care, I hear. Lord Oxford tells me you may enjoy setting it to rights. I shall not tarry long after, though, you have my word.” 

She wants to believe him, even though he is sending her away to an more distant and surely even colder and gloomier castle, and the joke is on her for being so starved of the affection and riches she once had that a carefully chosen book, a rich gown, and a few kisses and soft words cause her to surrender her heart unasked. She has been made ridiculous, and it is not Henry’s doing, it is hers. 

 

He joins her sooner than she had feared. She is more cautious now, greeting him with all the politeness and reverence due to her lord, but no careless eagerness, although she plans at the same while to find ways to keep him close, to work out his mind, and win him over, if she can.

He is only there a day before he rides out to visit the remainder of his lands. Now that these days are more peaceful, the King has finally granted him leave, and there is much to do, he says. More likely, thinks Elizabeth, wrinkling her nose, the Dowager Queen Margaret told him to take that wretched daughter of York as far away from the court as possible.

Before he leaves, he walks out with her into the grounds, talking of the care of this, their kingdom, and then gives another of his gifts – a greyhound pup, that she cannot help being delighted over. Then he is gone. It would be easier if he was all coldness and didn’t show these glints of something softer. Does he mean any affection by it, or is it only a means of having her accept her cage happily? 

It is weakness and folly, of course, to fret over such things. They are not to be expected of a marriage at their degree, even if her heart has so shamelessly betrayed her.

 

Elizabeth tends her garden, and finds peace there as he comes and goes again, making certain his stewards are not breaking their trust. She gives instructions – where to plant the lavender, rosemary, and gillyflowers; the camomile, roses and heartsease – and will make her own haven here. 

She is alone there, in the sharper sunshine and wider skies of the northern country, gathering a small sweet-smelling posy to carry, the chief part of her daily tasks done. Bending down by the flower bed, she finds, hidden till now, a white rose bush coming into bloom.

“My lady,” Henry says from somewhere behind her, making her start.

Elizabeth rises, even as one of her ladies comes hastening across to belatedly inform her that her lord is home. Elizabeth merely nods for the girl to leave, and faces Henry. This time, she hopes she will be less foolish; she ignores the increase in her heartbeat.

“My lord,” she returns with a placid smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Will you be with us for long?” She wishes he would not watch her so intently when she is trying to be practical. It does not help.

“I have another surprise for you,” he says, smiling back at her as he takes her hands and then kisses them briefly in greeting. “I have brought with me a minstrel to entertain us this evening – perhaps every night, if you wish.”

“Oh, no,” she says, losing her efforts at pretence, “oh, please do not!”

Henry pauses, surveying her more warily. “I thought you also liked music. But if it does not please you –”

“It does, my lord,” she says, closing her eyes, “very much, and I thank you.”

He tilts his head. “But?” he says. “The gift pleases you, and yet – not?”

“I am tired, my lord,” she says, engaging in a battle to regain her dignity that has already been lost. “And I – that is to say, your gifts all please me. Too much, I think.”

There is an amused glint in his eyes now, although he still watches her as if she is an alien specimen. “Now, here is a riddle,” he says with a laugh, ushering her across to a seat, winding his arm around her waist. “ _Too_ pleased with my gifts? How is that, madam?”

She shakes her head, and tries to laugh.

“You are distressed?” he says, the laughter fading and he tightens his hold on her, his voice growing softer. “Yes, I suppose you have been a prisoner too long. You are that no more, Bess. You are Countess of Richmond, and I trust that will prove enough in time. I hope so.”

She leans against him, touched by his sympathy, and unsure how to turn the moment to her advantage. He might leave her again if she does not. She fingers the fine fabric of his sleeves instinctively at the thought, wanting to keep him close.

“I cannot be sorry for the restoration of the King,” he continues, “but I would not have had you suffer as I once did. I hope – I hope you will heal here. Will not a little music help ease the heart?”

Elizabeth closes her eyes again, relaxing against him, her doubts fading. 

“Bess,” he says, and kisses her hands, and, perhaps it is her folly and weakness, but those doubts now flee the scene, quite vanquished.

She gives a tremulous laugh, and dares to put a hand to his hair. “My lord, I fear the problem is that I want more, not less.”

She sees understanding flash in his eyes as he raises his head again, and then he hesitates. He paves the way first, she realises; he wants to be sure. No wild leaps into joy, no ignominious stumbles into disappointment, that is Henry. She is beginning to understand him, and when she does, she will win.

“My lord has my heart,” she whispers. “I am not certain I have his. Is that not an unfair bargain?”

He laughs and gathers her in, pulling her onto his lap, his arm tightly around her. “Unjust indeed,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. “We cannot have that.”

She puts her arms around him and kisses him in return (and again, again), though any of their household might see, the remnants of her scented posy scattering; petals and leaves falling across her skirts. Perhaps it _is_ but weakness and folly – one fair summer that cannot endure, but she will be content here while it lasts.

***

**4\. rue**

It’s a relief to hear that the last Lancastrian contender of any note – if he can even be called that – has been brought to London and safely locked in the Tower along with his uncle. It’s strange for Elizabeth to think that her name has been used to put him there, but it was not any of her doing. Her father held out the lure of marriage to his eldest daughter – and now Henry Tudor is in the Tower and King Edward’s victory is complete.

It _is_ strange, but merely a passing shadow, and it’s only when, laughing with Cecily, she sees Lady Margaret Beaufort walking towards her mother’s chambers that she feels a pang of pity. Lady Margaret says nothing, but everyone in the Queen’s household knows how hard she has worked to bring her son home; how much she has grieved for him. How much more so now will she grieve for him now?

“Princess Elizabeth,” Lady Margaret says, reaching them, inclining in respect. “Lady Cecily.” Even her well-practised façade is not enough to hide her pain today; she barely sees them, her eyes as grey as the sky and her hand unsteady, as she wanders on past without another word to the princesses.

It is hard, Elizabeth thinks, for after all, Richmond has himself done them no harm. All he has done to threaten the king is to exist, and must Lady Margaret pay for that by losing her only child, when all the battles are finally over?

“He has no _real_ claim to the throne, does he?” Elizabeth asks her father later, when she and Cecily are brought into his presence. Lady Margaret’s unhappiness haunts her, as does that misuse of her name. “And if there is no reason to be fear him, could we not spare him?” She looks to her mother and Lady Margaret, talking together.

“Soft-hearted tonight, are we not, sweeting?” he says.

Elizabeth shakes her head, but looks again at Margaret, and her father frowns as he follows her gaze. Perhaps he feels pity also, perhaps he thinks of keeping Stanley loyal, but he says, “We shall see. But there’s nought to be done for that old rebel, his uncle; I can’t spare him.”

Elizabeth bows her head.

 

Later, in daring mood when Elizabeth hears Richmond is moved to less secure lodgings in the Tower, she pays the guard well and she and Cecily and two of their ladies risk a visit. 

Elizabeth keeps her cloak close about her and stays at the edges of the room, and he rises to greet his unexpected guests only slowly. He’s tall, narrow-faced, and pale – if he has exercise here, it will be limited here to walks along the walls, if he’s permitted that liberty yet.

She remembers her disguise, and curtseys (while Cecily claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle in the doorway), holding out her parcel wrapped in cloth. “This is from the Lady Margaret for you, my lord.”

“Is it?” he says, and looks first at it, at the odd collection of items it was in Elizabeth’s power to gift (a pudding and some plums brought to her yesterday by a citizen of London in exchange for a coin, and a pack of cards of her own), and then directly at her, a sharper glint in his eyes. His gaze falls to where the fine cloth of her gown shows beneath the dark brown cloak, and he puts down the parcel.

Elizabeth steps back.

“Who are you?” he says, dwarfing her as he stands close, stretching his hands out towards her, long fingers level with her throat. “You are one of the princesses – the Princess Elizabeth. You should not be here. They will have my head after all!”

She raises her chin, refusing to back away, though Cecily calls to her in warning. She has her pride.

“I am your enemy,” Henry says. “Your father killed my uncle – both my uncles – and my grandfather, and has kept me prisoner or exile all these years. And here you are – your life in my hands!”

Elizabeth is more outraged than afraid, though her heart thumps as if to disagree. She will not be defeated by her weakness: she steps even nearer. “You would not dare!”

“ _Elizabeth_!” says Cecily from the door, all laughter gone from her voice.

Henry lowers his hands, deflating as he moves away. “No. No, I would not. It would gain me nothing, in any case.”

“No,” says Elizabeth. She would like to explain why she’s here, but it’s only curiosity and she can’t justify that. She should know better. “I asked my father to spare you, you know.”

“Did you? But you cannot stay here, your grace. Though – wait. One moment. First, I must pay you.”

“For the pudding, sir?” says Elizabeth, beginning to be amused again. “Or for your life?”

He presses two shillings into her hand, and his face lightens for a moment. “Oh, for the pudding, your grace. My life is not worth so much these days. Perhaps one day, I may repay you for that with interest, but I do not think you should count on it.”

“I am sorry,” she says, before she runs over to Cecily, who catches hold of her. She stops there for an instant, looking back at him, and then they hurry away down the passage. They should not have come; she knew that all along.

 

She wonders later, amid yet more marriage negotiations, when she thinks of Henry in the Tower, whether she has done harm or good by pleading for his life. After she is sent away, she may never know.

***

**5\. the lily-white rose methought I saw**

Queen Elizabeth is angry this autumn of 1497, but she conceals her feelings. She curtseys to an impostor and bites her tongue for the sake of her children, for the sake of the secret work to free the King, but all the while she would gladly hang the man who calls himself Richard IV and all who have brought him here.

They are an unprepared group of rebels who have no notion of the reality of ruling a kingdom, and around them is a larger, more deadly, circle of vultures, picked up since their unexpected victory at Exeter. They can see that they have chosen the wrong side, that Perkin’s end is coming, and they might do what Elizabeth fears the most and kill the King to save their skins. That she cannot allow.

So, she smiles and hides her feelings, the way that Lady Margaret taught her years ago, while the impostor talks of freeing her from her marriage to the usurper.

“I do not blame _you_ , my dear sister,” ‘Richard’ says. “What choice did you have? I will take care of you, and my dear nephews and nieces – and I will even spare your husband if he will but acknowledge his crimes in stealing my throne.”

Perkin will be waiting a long time for _that_ to happen. Henry will have to be broken before he bows to the impostor. That is not a thought that comforts Elizabeth. They can break anyone in the Tower, if they choose.

Perkin speaks softly, and smiles as if he is unaware that England is in uproar. He gives impossible commands – they must mint more money to pay his men, and free all prisoners – as if he can simply order peace and plenty for all. But all the while he shifts on his throne, glancing at the door every time anyone moves out of turn, and Elizabeth is sure that is another pretence and he only wonders how to escape with his life. She is sure his wife, the Scottish Lady Catherine, knows it too. Catherine cannot look at the Queen, and when she addresses her husband, her smiles and reassurances grow more strained by the minute.

Elizabeth prays that Lord Daubeney and his men, who are on the march, perhaps Lord Oxford and others, too, will reach London before it is too late, and the king is dead. Then there will be no king other than her young son Arthur and _that_ is a nightmare she has no wish to live through again.

When Perkin first brought her before him, Elizabeth had been curious, aware of a painful mixture of hope and fear. _Could_ he be her lost brother? He is like; it cannot be denied as she steals another glance at him now; like enough to cause her doubt, but it would not be a matter of doubt if she saw Richard again; she would _know_.

So, he must be a weak and wicked man for all his fair looks and pretty manners, and Elizabeth stifles burning anger within. She cannot allow herself even to think of Henry in the Tower, or wonder if Arthur is safe at Ludlow, or what will happen if these rebels throw aside all she and Henry have built, with nothing to put in its place but dreams as thin as paper.

She can wait no longer. It is time for her to act.

 

“He is _not_ my brother,” Elizabeth tells Lady Catherine, drawing her aside, holding her gaze steadily. It is Catherine who turns away. “But I think you already know that in your heart.”

Catherine closes her eyes. “Your grace. It is not for me to say.”

“No,” Elizabeth says, straightening herself. She is queen again already. She takes Catherine’s hand, and says, with pity, “No. You must be loyal to your lord, I know. As I to mine. But I must ask one thing of you. There may be trouble soon. Promise me you will see my children safe.”

Catherine breathes out and lifts her head. She nods. “That I may do with a good will, your grace.”

Elizabeth smiles, and puts her hand to the younger woman’s cheek. She always wins her victories in softer ways than Henry, but she is often just as successful. “We will be grateful,” she says.

 

Armed men are at the city walls, and it is only a matter of time before will be inside. The Tower is under siege, and those within will soon decide which king to sacrifice. Elizabeth cannot wait. She sends a messenger she trusts with money to bribe the guards, and with clothes for the king. If Henry is alive and free, he will make their choice for them. Then she returns to the hall, meek, as if she knows nothing of the fighting outside or of vital prisoners escaping within. All Lady Margaret has taught her is more useful than ever now. If only –

She sits, demure, but her hands tremble on her lap. She has played her part, and, waiting, she fears for Henry. They will not dare to kill her, and Lady Catherine has carried out her promise, to keep the children safe, but she does not yet know how it fares with her husband. Perhaps he _is_ dead, or badly hurt? Perhaps the boy she sent fled with the money and Henry is still locked away in the dark. Such ideas nearly undo her at the last, and she vows to herself they will hang if they have hurt the king. The Earl of Oxford will do it, and without any need for her to ask it of him.

Perkin is still giving orders that will go nowhere, pretending the gates are not giving way, and more men deserting him, when the soldiers force their way into the hall.

“How dare you?” Perkin says, rising, but even now, he can muster no conviction. “I am your king!” And then, more softly: “I have money – if you will let me pass, you shall be rewarded –”

“I think _not_ , sir,” says a familiar voice, as Henry strides in after the soldiers. “You will not be going anywhere tonight. Indeed, I doubt you will be going anywhere again soon. You will be my guest now, and I am in no hurry to part with you.” He nods to the guards. “Take him away – and the rest!”

Elizabeth lifts her head. She blinks away tears, unsteady in her relief. She leans on Lady Catherine, before drawing herself up again, finding no words to speak what is in her heart. 

Henry crosses to stand next to Elizabeth, gripping her hand as the troublemakers are led away, some of them struggling, some of them already too much defeated to try. Henry doesn’t look at them, watching Elizabeth, the grim line of his mouth easing a little as he sees she is unharmed. He kisses her hand and tell her what she most wants to hear, without need for her to ask: “They tell me that Arthur is safe – my lord of Oxford met the pretender’s men on the road before they got anywhere near Ludlow.”

She leans in against him briefly, and murmurs in return, “The lord Harry, and our two princesses are safe also, your grace.”

He gives her hand another squeeze, long-understood signs passing between them, but nothing more may be expressed in public, though before he releases her, he says, “Bess,” and kisses her hand again.

There will be much to do, or be undone now, and Elizabeth must wait before she can discover how much he is hurt, in mind and in body. Henry finds it hard to believe himself secure, and this cannot help. 

She waits for him to visit her chambers later, making arrangements without needing to be told that he will come, as soon as he may. Henry is late, however, and, as she watches the candles burn lower, she begins to fear. Perhaps he thinks she believed Perkin? Perhaps all her efforts to win and hold him have been lost in one ill-judged move by another? Elizabeth shivers. Oh, he would still treat her with honour and do his duty, but she knows well how unreachable he can make himself when he chooses. She stiffens. She will fight with all she has not to have him leave her in the cold outside his inner circle. 

She hears voices in the outer chamber, and breathes out in relief as she sees him, arriving at last in a long dark, velvet robe and pale nightgown. He gathers her tightly to him, and Elizabeth holds him in return. 

“What shall I say?” he says, stroking her hair. “I should never have permitted him to get this far. You are unhurt?”

She shakes her head. “Yes, yes,” she murmurs, and kisses his cheek. “Save for worry over you, my lord. He is a wicked creature! I would have liked to kill him.”

“Bess,” he says, laughing in surprise; pulling her in closer on the bed. She feels the tension ease out of him. He understands that she is still on his side.

Having broken through that wall of mistrust, she is close enough to ask what has been desperate to know, “Are you hurt, Henry? What did they do to you?”

“Nothing that is not mended now,” he says, rather indistinctly into her hair. That cannot be true in any sense – and when she runs her fingers down the fabric of his nightshift, he flinches under her touch, though neither of them say anything. The King cannot admit to being as easily damaged as the man.

Elizabeth keeps close, both for her comfort and for his, holding onto Henry till he may perhaps sleep. It may not be enough to save him or everyone else from the worst of his fears, but for now, she has his heart and his trust still, and that she counts as her victory. Once she was his enemy and now he will put his life in her hands. That privilege is hers alone.

She is, after all, a Plantagenet, as Lady Margaret once said. She knows what she wants, and how to get it.

**Author's Note:**

> I stole several lines from the series and recycled them in slightly different contexts, but particularly, "The Planetagents know what they want and how to get it..." (These particular interpretations of historical figures are of course also primarily the BBC's.)
> 
> The title (and section titles) are from Thomas Phelypps's [I Love a Flower](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=rLZ-PaT8z6UC&pg=PA264&lpg=PA264&dq=%22i+love+the+rose+both+red+and+white%22&source=bl&ots=CVltpMQqu2&sig=FC73gUncJzg7RVGaMWAYTOdDF28&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwint6jO5pffAhWtVRUIHXuzD6YQ6AEwDnoECAAQAQ#v=onepage&q&f=false) and "The lily white rose" (anon).


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